


"Her" and Dear Precious Daddy

by silver0wings



Series: Merc' the Jerk [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Abuse, Crossdressing, Forced Incest, Misgendering, Murder, Sexual Abuse, it isnt sexy crossdressing, its fucked up, low /no self worth, this fic isnt sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 17:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11787888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver0wings/pseuds/silver0wings
Summary: Mercury is used to playing different roles for different jobs. This one's no different.Alternatively titled "Marcus is super fucked up"





	"Her" and Dear Precious Daddy

Skin crawls and feels too heavy, shit slathered across "Her" face to hide blemishes and scars. Lips smooth and red, but not yet pushed into a smile. Cheeks a soft pink that matches the flowers across the dress. Eyes that usually burn with an unquenchable fire instead made to look soft, subtly done up with makeup and a set of big blue contacts. Hair dyed and styled with wavy curls, something it would never do without hours of prep work. The whole look designed to make this body look like some spoiled rich teen who's never seen day of hard work, never an ounce of blood or spat on a dying corpse. "She" needs to look like this, to play daddy's perfect innocent sweetheart. 

Innocent. 

Ha. 

If it wasn't for the vomit that burned my throat as I stared "Her" in the mirror, I'd laugh at the word. Wasn't a damn thing innocent left in me, not for such a very long time.

Not like I minded. Sick as the game made me, it was the only one I could imagine playing. The only game I've ever known. And it's only a game, right? Nothing wrong with fun. 

Long as he had his fun. . . 

"Hurry the hell up in there, we've got a banquet to go to!" 

There's his voice. Not slurred as usual, but still containing the same anger. My fault. I was being slow. I've already taken too damn long to put this face on, but hey, "She's" high maintenance and would take forever, I'm just playing my part. 

I slip the heels on, take a moment to adjust to the new height added by them, and step outside. 

His face is looking down at me, not nearly dolled up to the same extent as "Hers," and not wearing the same fake but sincere looking sort of lie that "Her" face wears. He likes to save getting into character for when there's people to see his performance and be wowed by it. Sure, I could be wowed, but I don't count as a person.

He's not Dear Precious Daddy yet, he's still just my dad. 

He's still the assassin that he is even when he's playing a role like he will tonight. 

He's still the guy who- 

"You look like a young whore." 

Yeah. He's still the guy that says shit like that. 

He puts his hand on "Her" hip, nudging. I turn in a circle on queue, wearing the false smile he's taught me to perfect. He stops me when my back is towards him, cool fingertips under the dress and pushed against "her" cheeks. 

My breathing stops, but my heart races more. It takes too long to find words, his fingers had already started moving. I break character, words Mine and not "Hers." 

"Treat me like one and you'll fuck up my face. Don't want me spending another hour fixing it." 

He makes a disappointed noise but moves off into the bathroom to check himself over. There are no more words as we leave and head off to the banquet. There's no need for more, we both know the plan and who we are for the night. 

I can barely remember what the banquet's for. Some charity? Sad little puppies and kittens or orphans, I think. Yeah, that was it. I know that was it because dad remarked they'd be better off ground up into mystery meat and fed to the starving, that it'd be cheaper to do that too. 

Not like I need to be smart and educated here. Not like I need to be here. Nah, this is all "Her." 

We arrive stylishly late, and Dear Precious Daddy walks in with "Her" trotting beside without a care in the world, as we walk inside and greet several people who aren't playing roles, who are actually rich bastards throwing money around to feel good about themselves. Rich bastards who all secretly hate each other, one hating another enough to hire us.

"Her" and Dear Precious Daddy talk and chatter with the adults for a while, and "She" interjects with some mindless bullshit a handful of times, which of course makes Dear Precious Daddy smile and laugh at how kids are these days. Eventually, Dear Precious Daddy tells "Her" to run and play with the other girls, and "She" gives him a hug and a smooch on the cheek as "She" walks off. 

In those awkward moments where I can still hear his conversation but I'm too far away to say anything back, I catch a remark about how "It's like you have a little wife instead of a daughter!" 

For the second time this night, I taste vomit. 

A sip of a bubbly drink the Dear Precious Daddy had given "Her" rinses it out, and "She" makes her way over to a cluster of young, rich, and undoubtedly snotty teens. None of them seem any the wiser that there's an imposture among them, not a clue as "She" goes on about how Dear Precious Daddy gave "Her" this new pair of shoes that just so happen to be made by the designer who made the host's daughter's shoes. And just like that, "She's" into the inner circle of bullshit, fitting right in. 

I want to rip my ears off and scream that no one gives a shit about how many pairs of designer _whatever_ your dad bought you. None of it matters. It's shoes and purses and dresses, with talk of a pony here and there. But I don't. Instead "She" oohs and awws, and finally, asks to see the host's daughter's collection of some asinine bullshit. 

Trust is so easy to gain. 

Easy to break, too. So My mouth stays shut, letting "Her" do the talking. 

"She" giggles on the way up the stairs, and I catch a glimpse of some white haired girl about my age stubbornly arguing with what looked to be her dad. I can't hear what she's saying, but she looks like she means business and knows what's what. I decide that she's the coolest one here. 

Keep fighting the man, white haired girl with attitude. 

I can't dwell on her too long, instead, I'm brought up to the host's daughter's room and shown around. "Her" and this idiot girl gossip and talk, and the other girl who was invited up eventually has to powder her nose, so the two of us are left alone. 

As soon as the door shuts again, I smirk. "She" dies, forgotten for the moment in favor of the rush that floods through me, takes over and makes what comes next easy. 

"Lori, why are you making that face?" God, she's dumb. I almost feel bad. Almost. But it's because the game isn't as much fun when they're dumb, not because I give a shit. 

It feels so good to speak again. So good now that "She" isn't speaking. Even if it's only a few words, they're _My_ words. 

"Actually, it's Mercury." 

The host's daughter doesn't get a chance to tell anyone that, because within the next second her blood spatters across the bedroom walls, across all those things her daddy bought her that she bragged about. 

My satisfaction is quickly tucked away, and "She" returns. 

Dainty little heels click down the stairs, and "She" goes to find Dear Precious Daddy, tugging at his sleeve and making this awful pouting face. 

"Daddy, I don't feel good." 

Being the loving parent he is, Dear Precious Daddy excuses himself at the nearest moment to tend to his sickly child. This means leaving the banquet, which I'm thankful for. 

There's no words again. He knows I did the job, that I didn't get caught, that I'm not actually sick at all. He knows about the buzz that's running through me, that disgusting excitement that I feel. 

Once we're out and heading home, "She" fades fast, the only trace left the appearance. I bring my arm up to wipe at my face, but he snatches my hand, slapping it away before I can ruin the pretty face. 

"Leave it. I wanna use that face when we get home." 

For the third and final time, the familiar taste of vomit rises. There's no avoiding what happens when we get home. 

At least he's gentle this time.

No, this isn't him being gentle. He isn't gentle, not with me. 

This is Dear Precious Daddy being gentle with "Her."


End file.
